Buckshot Roulette -

Leo looked at the gun. Then at Darius’s body. Then at the Dealer.

This time, the recoil kicked her hand away. The left side of her head simply ceased to exist. She was gone before she hit the table, collapsing forward into the spreading puddle of Darius’s blood. The shotgun clattered onto the floor.

The Dealer himself was a mountain in a stained wifebeater, forearms like hams, knuckles a roadmap of old breaks. He didn’t smile. He just slid the shotgun into the center of the table. A short, brutal pump-action. Then, a box of 12-gauge shells. Twelve of them. buckshot roulette

Click.

He picked up the shotgun. He didn’t put it to his head. He stood up, took two steps around the table, and pressed the barrel against the Dealer’s forehead. Leo looked at the gun

Darius’s head didn’t just snap back. It opened . A spray of red and grey painted the wall behind him—a grotesque Rorschach. His body sat there for a full second, hands still loosely holding the shotgun, before it tilted sideways and crashed to the floor. The smell hit immediately: copper, cordite, and the hot, organic reek of bowels releasing.

Click.

The Dealer picked up the shotgun. Reloaded. Three hot shells. He racked the slide and placed it in the center.

Leo stood there for a long moment, breathing in the smoke and silence. Then he dropped the gun, stepped over the bodies, and walked out into the rain. This time, the recoil kicked her hand away

Marta, mid-forties, ex-military. She sat with her hands flat on the table. She wasn’t here for money. She was here because her son had been taken. The Dealer’s employer had him. Win, she got a location. Lose… she tried not to think about lose.